


into the lion's den

by sleeplessmiles



Series: iscariot [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Allusions to canon suicide attempts, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minor Original Character(s), SHIELD Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:02:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessmiles/pseuds/sleeplessmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma, Ward, and Kara find a stronghold of SHIELD Academy cadets who managed to survive the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into the lion's den

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand we're back!! My apologies for going so long without an update; hopefully the length makes up for that a little.
> 
> Just a reminder that this diverges from canon after 2x11, so assume that nothing else in 2b has occurred here. This includes (for the most part) any knowledge we might have gained in 2b, especially pertaining to what happened at the Academy during the Hydra takeover, and pretty much the entirety of Ward's 2b characterisation.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

 

 

From a purely objective standpoint, Jemma can recognise that she’s most likely gone into shock.

This is news to nobody, of course. Ward had been the first to bring it up, back when they were about ten minutes away from the scene of the incident and he’d glanced back to notice her, well. _Her._ The pallor of her face, she presumes, or perhaps the way she’d been swaying on her feet, hands trembling violently. Kara had immediately swooped across and gripped Jemma’s forearm, urging them both forward while making sure she stayed upright.

So they’ve established that she’s in shock. She’s hardly going to argue that.

She just doesn’t particularly care, is the real problem. 

Anything to distract herself from what she’s just left behind her.

(Because even through the odd numbness, even through the panicked haze, she can still feel the sensation of rushing _warmth_ against her torso.)

Squeezing her eyes shut now, she lists the symptoms of shock to herself as they continue on through the woods, the crisp air pressing in around them and forcing her back into awareness. It seems to taunt her, dragging her back to the harsh reality of the situation almost gleefully. But there’s a sort of dull comfort in going through the diagnostic process, really, a hint of who she used to be hidden within the systematic evaluation, and so she runs through it to keep her mind occupied.

Cool, clammy skin? Check.

Confusion and/or vagueness? That had definitely been the case an hour or so earlier, although it’s fading now. There’s a pang of fear in her stomach at that, at the realisation that her shelter from reality is steadily slipping away, but she continues on in defiance. 

Lightheadedness? Certainly. It could be due to a rapid decrease in blood pressure, she supposes, but it also could just be low blood sugar. 

‘Jemma.’ 

She really should have taken that power bar Ward offered to her earlier. It was stupid of her, trying to make a point for something as inconsequential as her pride. Not that she’s really grown much from the experience; she still refuses to ask for it now, after all. She just…

She can’t.

‘Jemma?’

Anxiety. Anxiety is another symptom of shock. She feels an absurd laugh bubble up in her chest at that, a rising wave of hysteria that she makes no real attempt to suppress.

(Because anxiety is just a symptom of her _life_ at this point.)

‘ _Jemma._ ’

Jemma blinks sluggishly, curtailing her rambling thoughts and trying to focus in on her surroundings – namely, the hulking outline of Grant Ward, walking a few paces ahead of her on the narrow track. Kara’s walking just in front of her and calling her name with a worried expression, voice pitched surprisingly low, and Jemma realises that the other woman is trying to make sure that Ward can’t hear. Scrunching her nose, Jemma’s about to point out that it’s probably a futile endeavour – Ward always _did_ have remarkable hearing – when it clicks.

Kara’s doing this for Jemma’s sake. To make her feel more comfortable. 

That’s… very sweet, actually. Unnecessary, but sweet.

She shakes her head a little, hoping it’ll help to jolt her more permanently back into the here and now. 

‘Yes?’

Kara looks reluctant, glancing away and pursing her lips in discomfort before making eye contact again. ‘We should… your shirt.’ 

_Her…?_

Jemma looks down at her body, coming to an automatic halt as she registers the state of it.

Oh.

Her shirt.

With a morbid sense of disconnect, Jemma brings a shaky hand up to touch the bloodstain marring her pale blouse – just the gentlest of caresses, a mere brush of her fingertips, but it’s enough. The patch is dried out now, all stiff and crusted over her abdomen, and so the sensation is a little surreal. She looks back up to see that Kara and Ward have stopped in their tracks, both of them watching her in abject concern as though they’re waiting for her to lose her tenuous grip on control.

( _It’s already happened_ , she wants to inform them. _I agreed to this bloody plot in the first place, and now I’m traipsing through the woods with the man who tried to kill me._

But she remains silent.)

They must see something like a warning at the back of her gaze, because Ward averts his eyes with a sigh, walking a short distance away and dropping his pack onto the ground. And then two more packs.

Oh.

He has two of her bags.

When did that happen? 

Kara sets down Jemma’s med kit ( _when did she get that?)_ and is just opening up her own bag, rummaging around, when Jemma notices the split above the woman’s eye.  _That_ propels her into action. 

‘Oh, you’re hurt! Let me – ’ 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kara says absently, waving her off. 

‘No, no it’s my fault, I was just lost in thought. I can – ’

‘ _Jemma._ ’ Kara straightens up and shoots her a tentative smile, entirely too much knowledge in her eyes. ‘It’s fine. You think I’m going to lose sleep over a little cut?’

‘It’s a rather sizable cut, actually,’ Jemma counters. 

Kara only huffs a laugh, all self-deprecation. ‘It’s no melted face mask.’ 

She makes a good point. Even so. 

‘But there’s still infection to consider, not to mention the fact that I _really_ should have checked your dressings at least a few hours ago – probably earlier, in fact. If you’ll just allow me – ’

‘ – Hey,’ Kara cuts in, stepping forward and holding up a hand to cut off the rambling. ‘How about we get you cleaned up first, alright? Then we’ll worry about me.’

‘But – ’

‘Jemma,’ she says firmly, but the expression on her face softens as soon as she’s spoken. ‘You need to get yourself out of… that.’

The _out of that headspace_ double meaning remains unspoken. Jemma’s grateful for it. Her shoulders slump a little, and a sigh escapes before she purses her lips.

‘Isn’t it a bit… _exposed_ here?’ she asks under her breath, suddenly mindful of the cold. And it’s true that the clearing in which they’ve stopped is less sheltered by trees than the rest of the path had been, certainly. But the thing is, she’s genuinely asking for Kara’s read on the situation. She feels like her own risk assessment skills aren’t quite functioning all that well in the aftermath of her episode, and she isn't sure she trusts them.

It’s a scary admission to make to herself. She’s not quite ready to voice it aloud just yet.

Kara glances briefly around them in evaluation. 

‘Well… yeah, it’ll be a bit cold, but…’ She meets Jemma’s gaze. ‘I really think you need to get changed, Jemma.’ 

And that should be enough, Jemma knows. It really should be. Especially coming from Kara, after all of the horrors this woman has faced. She would know.

But Jemma’s traitorous eyes seek out Ward anyway, instinctively looking for his take.

Worse still, he nods and she feels… relief? Is that relief?

 _God_ , how she hates this. She hates that she’s reassured by his assessment of the situation. By his _risk assessment,_ of all things, when it was his fucking “risk assessment” that ended with her sitting at the bottom of the ocean with the boy she l- with _Fitz_ , grappling with the very real prospect of their imminent demise.

How does she reverse that? How can she strip her instincts pertaining to the man she knew, so that she can trust them in the face of the man before her? How does she reconcile false memories with the reality?

Because she _has_ to. She agreed to this; she has to be able to rely on her own judgement.

She has to make this work, now.

Suddenly furious at herself, Jemma starts to shuck her jacket, stubbornly maintaining eye contact with him the entire time. He only looks saddened. Something clutters to the ground with the jerky motions, and she’s confused for a moment as she tries to work out what she has in her pockets. She’d thought everything to be in her packs, so what could possibly –?

When her searching eyes fall upon the object, her blood runs cold.

Trip’s knife.

Encrusted with dried –

_God._

Swallowing back the apologies that threaten to spill out at the sight (oh _God_ , forgive me Trip _I’m so sorry_ ), she snatches up the knife and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans. To stop her hands from shaking, she smooths them down over her thighs.

Right.

Okay.

_Focus on the task at hand, Jemma._

The knife weighs heavy in her pocket. 

(She can’t meet his eyes this time.)

It only takes another quick glance down for her to reach the conclusion that unbuttoning probably isn’t the best course of action here – quite apart from her unsteady hands, the fabric’s too stiff and unwieldy. Gritting her teeth, she lifts her shirt over her head, followed quickly by her ruined camisole. As the cool air hits her skin, she fights to maintain an even expression.

There’s…

Jemma swallows, her mouth dry around the lump in her throat.

That’s a lot of blood, on her skin.

_(The blood of the man I murdered.)_

She inhales sharply, unable to tear her eyes away from the macabre smudges dried across her stomach. Flames of white-hot panic lick at the periphery of her consciousness once more, and Jemma fights to avoid being engulfed by them.

And then a throat clears, cutting through it all. Jemma looks up.

Kara. 

From her place a few feet away, Kara takes another step forward and then seems to hesitate, biting her lip in deliberation. Jemma eyes the cloth in the other woman’s hands with a sense of vague trepidation.

‘Do you want… I could help you?’

And her reflex is honestly to say no – in fact, the word is already on her lips, halfway uttered – before she catches herself. She recalls how shaky Kara herself had looked only a few hours ago, standing over their driver and looking like her world had just fallen down around her ankles. For all that Jemma feels out of control, Kara must be feeling it tenfold. At _least._  

So she’s offering as much for Jemma’s sake as for herself, isn’t she? She’s just trying to wrest control back.

And Jemma gets it. Because how badly had she wanted to help Skye and Fitz, in any way she could? How keenly had it hurt when she was denied that opportunity?

(How much concern and pain had shone through May’s gaze, even as Jemma refused the older woman’s help?)

Jemma’s atoning for it all now. That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? She has to make this different.

She _has_ to.

So she meets Kara’s eyes.

‘That would be – yes, thank you.’

As relief washes over Kara’s features, Jemma knows she’s made the right call.

Nodding to herself, Kara gets to work; she dampens the towel with water from her bottle, and Jemma watches as she wrings it out before finally approaching. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and the whole thing is imbued with the kind of concern Jemma hasn’t felt since before she left SHIELD.

But it’s not until she hears Kara’s sharp intake of breath that Jemma remembers the gnarled, still-healing knife wound on her upper right bicep.

She freezes.

Oh, shit. 

Shit, shit, _shit_. 

Jemma’s been so meticulous about keeping it covered over the past few months, eager to avoid displaying any distinguishable marks by which she might be identified. The only time it was ever visible was in the privacy of whichever apartment she found herself in by the end of each day. But now it’s exposed, the brightness of the mid-afternoon illuminating every ugly furrow and lump.

It isn’t even that she’s ashamed of the injury itself. Not at all. It’s everything that followed that’s been eating away at her.

Hyperaware of Ward – always, _always_ mindful of his proximity – she looks up to meet his eyes. Sure enough, his gaze is fixed on the wound, a mixture of horror and concern warring across his features. 

She feels a surge of anger. 

 _Because **you** weren’t there_, she wants to say, wants to spit out at him. She wants him to _feel_ it, even a fraction of what she feels. _Look what_ _happened_.

But what would be the point? He already knows.

It’s written all over his face.

Jemma blinks, sliding her gaze across to focus on Kara’s ministrations instead. For her part, Kara just studies the wound intently, her brow furrowed and her hands achingly gentle as she wipes the blood off Jemma’s stomach, and Jemma can’t help but wince at the obvious concern on the other woman’s face.

(Concern that _she_ put there. It seems that Jemma can’t stop inflicting herself upon others, no matter how hard she might try to do otherwise.)

Racking her brain, she searches quickly for something to say to soften the impact or divert attention – anything, really, to fix this. _You should see the other guy_ , Skye or Bobbi might quip cheekily. Even May might, Jemma thinks, although it would have to be on one of her good days. It’d be much more deadpan, too.

The thing is, though, Jemma _did_ see the other guy. She’d watched on in horror as he’d crumpled to the ground, a single arrow protruding from his eye socket. She wouldn’t wish that sight upon anyone.

It seems she needn’t fret over a suitable excuse; Kara’s picked up on how uneasy she is all on her own. Placing the bloodied towel into a plastic bag, she grabs a clean one and begins to towel off the faintly red dampness.

‘Been getting into a lot of bar fights lately?’ she asks lightly.

Jemma shoots her a wry smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for the woman.

‘It looks worse than it is,’ she murmurs. ‘Bad suture job.’

Kara frowns. ‘You sutured it yourself?’

 _In kind_ , Jemma almost answers, because that’s technically the truth. She didn’t do the initial stitch-up – that had been all Barton, his steady hands making quick work of the knife wound like he’d done it a thousand times before. He most likely has, she muses.

But the second stitch-up? The one after her stitches had been torn out, picked at and scratched away by her blunt fingernails in a desperate attempt to _feel_ something, please God just let me _feel something again_ , completed alone in her apartment with only her laboured breathing and the heavy scent of blood to keep her company?

That had been all her.

After what’s almost certainly too long a pause, Jemma shakes her head _no_. Kara smiles wanly.

‘Was going to say. If I’d seen this before you did my face, I might’ve backed out.’

Jemma laughs, a soft little huff escaping her lips, and she tries not to look up at where Ward’s hovering. He’s still considering her very carefully, she knows, seeing way too much, and Jemma can’t take it. Not now, not from him.

Because she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

He’s staring at physical evidence of _her_ lowest point, the external scars a physical manifestation of internal torment, and she knows that he’s seeing _his_ low points reflected back at him. And then she is too, and it’s as though she’s back down in that basement with him, trying frantically to stem the bleeding, the coppery smell of blood hanging thickly in the air around her, clogging her airways, and oh _God_ , how could he do this to himself how _dare he_ –

She clears her throat.

_(There’s so much blood.)_

‘There,’ Kara announces, sitting back on her heels. ‘That should be better.’

‘Thank you,’ Jemma murmurs, still aware of Ward’s gaze on her. In the hopes of pre-empting any questions he might have, she reaches for a clean blouse and starts pulling it on.

‘So,’ she begins, eyes downcast and fingers working deftly at the buttons. ‘What’s our plan of attack?’

To his credit, he doesn’t even hesitate before answering. She feels a sort of begrudging sense of gratitude for it; he just _knows_ how she needs direction, purpose, something to keep her mind off it all.

They'd always had that in common.

‘Still no sign of any aircraft, so they’re clearly not looking too hard for us. But the sooner we can get upstate, the better.’ 

‘So we’re looking for a ride, basically.’ 

‘Or a vehicle,’ Kara adds. There’s still a hint of darkness lingering in the back of her gaze. ‘Might be better to control our own movement for a while.’

Jemma’s not really sure what to say to that, so she just nods.

And then they’re up and going again, bags being hoisted up into backs as Kara strides purposefully ahead, leaving Jemma and Ward standing next to each other.

_Thank you, Kara. Thanks so much._

Jemma realises just in time that Ward’s planning on grabbing the last of her bags, so she darts ahead of him and beats him to it. Swallowing down the flare of triumph she feels at the minor victory, she takes off after Kara; his jaw muscles bunching in a way that’s achingly familiar (she’s not thinking about it she’s not she's  _not_ ), Ward falls into step beside her. He says nothing – doesn’t even look at her, really – but she knows what he’s thinking. What he’s wondering. She wonders it herself, most days.

How does Jemma Simmons get herself a wound like that? More importantly, how does Jemma Simmons get herself a wound like that, out in the world on her own, and live to tell the tale?

(It’s a trick question, she knows. The real question is this: is she even Jemma Simmons anymore?)

The story, much like everything else that’s happened since she left SHIELD, is _hers_. There’s no reason to tell him. Absolutely none at all. So she really can’t explain why she suddenly feels the urge to share it anyway, the truth bubbling up in her throat in a way she knows she won’t be able to stop.

‘It was Barton,’ she mutters, eyes trained obstinately on the path ahead of them, on Kara’s slightly lopsided gait. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him look across at her for a few beats, as though evaluating, before turning his gaze to the front once more.

‘Didn’t ask.’

Jemma gives up any pretence of ignoring him at that, turning to him in disbelief.

‘Well you were _not asking_ very loudly, weren’t you,’ she snaps, instantly regretting the outburst. Because it tips the power balance, doesn't it? Her other angry responses had all been firmly justified; this one was overly emotional, juvenile. Simply allowing her frustrations to get the better of her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

But to her utter confusion ( _Was that not a blatant provocation? What's his game here? What's the angle?)_ he doesn't engage further. A half-smile crosses his face.

The familiarity of her bossing instruction only hits her in hindsight, the shock of it slowing her steps.

Shit.

For all intents and purposes, they might as well have back on the Bus, her crankiness briefly overcoming her after a frustrating day in the lab.

She didn’t even notice. She just. Slipped back into it.

 _God._ What a mess.

‘Kara,’ she calls out, trying to distract herself from the distressing normalcy of that interaction. The speed with which the other woman whirls around suggests that she’s been listening in. Jemma can’t exactly blame her.

‘Yeah? What’s up?’

‘What happened to your knee?’

Kara quirks an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards a little. ‘My knee?’

Jemma nods, pointing loosely at it. ‘Yes, your right knee. Based on your current mobility, I’d hazard a guess at you having subluxed the patella at some point in the past month, but that would be purely a…’

At the pleased smile spreading across Kara’s face, Jemma trails off. She quickly glances up at Ward for an explanation, and she finds that while he’s not smiling – not exactly _,_ anyway – there _is_ a fond softening around his eyes.

‘What?’ she demands, looking between the two of them.

Ward doesn’t answer her, still regarding Kara with that same wry expression. ‘Told you she was good.’

 _Oh._  

Kara’s grinning back, all closed lips and sparkling eyes. 

‘You weren’t kidding.’

It feels like a trick.

It feels like a _truth._

(But what _is_ truth here? Can it truly be as subjective and nonchalant as Ward seems to believe?)

In lieu of any sort of coherent response - _what would she even say to that?_ \- Jemma chooses simply to remain silent, eyes picking a safe path across the uneven ground. But Kara, it seems, is undeterred.

‘What do you think, Grant? Should I tell her about Cincinnati?’

He makes a face. ‘You don’t need my permission.’

Kara only snorts.

‘That wasn’t asking for permission, big guy. You don’t come off too hot in that story. Just thought I’d give you the chance to veto.’ 

‘Oh, _I_ don’t come off too hot?’ 

‘So that’s a yes.’ 

_It’s too normal I don’t belong here why don’t I feel more at odds why is this so –_

Kara falls back to walk beside her, and Jemma’s so thoroughly distracted by the eager enthusiasm on the other woman’s face that she benches her concerns for a later time.

‘Ever been to Cincinnati, English?’

 

 

-

-

 

 

When they finally emerge from the trees, they find themselves on a crest overlooking a small, semi-filled parking lot. There’s a smattering of shops across the other side of the lot – a convenience store, as far as Jemma can tell, as well as a pub. She’s not wearing a watch, so she can only really guess at the time of day, but it seems to be late enough that people might be heading to the pub for the night, most likely just settling in for a meal.

Good. That’s good. These people will have a few drinks, stay for their meal, maybe even have a couple more drinks to finish off the evening. It’ll be hours before they even notice that their car is missing.

_God. When did I start thinking like this? How far gone am I?_

‘No one much around,’ Ward says, eyes still scanning their surrounds. Some things never change, apparently. ‘We should have our pick of car.’

Jemma knows that he’s saying it aloud for her sake. If it were just him and Kara, they’d be on the same page and wouldn’t have to narrate their actions. She should probably appreciate the gesture for the sentiment behind it, but it just makes her bristle with annoyance. 

Because they _know_ , now! They know what she’s been doing for the past half year. She hadn't exactly been forthcoming, of course, but she'd alluded to much movement during that period, and they'd seen how she survived the scuffle earlier. Did they truly think so poorly of her skills? Surely they think her capable of making such a rudimentary observation herself.

She’s got half a mind to tell them as much, to inform them in no uncertain terms to not _baby_ her, for goodness’ sake. But then, she’s always found actions to say more than her words ever could.

_(Please. Let me show you.)_

So without a further thought – without even properly checking to ensure that the coast is clear – she steps out into the open, striding with purpose towards a nondescript old pick-up with a dented hood.

There’s a distant ringing in her ears, her heart thundering away in her chest. Kara and Ward call out from behind her, their surprise and disbelief chasing her across the clearing.

But her steps don’t falter once. 

By the time she reaches the car, the other two have caught up with her, but she barely even spares them a glance as she expertly picks the lock on the driver’s side and goes straight for the wiring below the steering wheel. 

(Their shocked silence is extremely gratifying. She’s certainly not above acknowledging _that._ )

The engine roars to life and Jemma drops the wires, feeling as though something’s reigniting in her own chest, too. Her impulse is to jump straight into the driver’s seat, to further take control of the situation, but she still doesn’t technically know where they’re going.

And she really, _really_ can’t envisage a scenario in which she asks Ward for directions, tentative truce be damned.

So she rocks back on her heels and stands up, brushing off her jeans before glancing back at the other two. Ward doesn’t say anything but his eyebrows are raised, the faintest hints of a smile twitching at his lips. Kara just lets out a low, impressed whistle. 

‘Damn, English. We’ll make a vigilante of you yet.’

Jemma grins.

‘Ah, every girl’s dream.’

Kara snorts, pleased.

 

  

-

-

 

 

Jemma is exhausted.

She doesn’t even know how long she’s been awake at this point, only that it’s somewhere in the vicinity of  _awfully long_. The last time she’d slept had been back in her lumpy old bed at the apartment. Kind of alarming, really, to consider how much has happened in such a short time.

Kara has already fallen asleep in the passenger seat, after an hour or so of her desperate attempts at conversation falling flat. It'd been a nice gesture, of course, and one for which Jemma is oddly grateful, but ultimately one that had been doomed from the start. Ward, on the other hand, seems wide awake, his eyes fixed on the darkening road ahead of them.

And therein lies Jemma’s problem, doesn’t it?  _That’s_ why she’s still conscious, right there. 

She’ll have to drop her guard around him eventually. Logically, she knows this. If they’re to… if they actually find these Academy cadets, she’ll be in his company for quite some time. Remaining awake for that long is an impossibility. Completely unrealistic. She knows this. 

Still, she sits curled up in the backseat with her eyelids obstinately fluttering, her brain incapable of relaxing enough to allow her some rest.

‘You can sleep.’

Blinking slowly, Jemma raises tired eyes to meet Ward’s in the rearview mirror. He shrugs a shoulder.

‘Today was…’ he trails off, and Jemma’s struck by his sudden indecision. She doesn’t recall ever having seen that from him before. ‘You’re probably tired.’

 _Excellent observation,_   _Ward,_  she thinks dryly. But she keeps her kneejerk sarcasm to herself.

There’s silence for a moment, hanging heavy and awkward in the car, and Jemma rather thinks the discomfort of it is enough to keep her awake indefinitely. But then, he clears his throat.

‘I won’t let anything happen,’ he says softly.

It hits Jemma like a physical blow to the chest.

 _God._  

She only stares back at him for the longest time, at a loss for words. Imagine, she thinks, being capable of believing that. Imagine being in a place where she could simply accept that and move on.

Imagine being able to listen to that voice at the back of her mind, the one insisting that he's telling the truth, and believing it.

Imagine.

With a heavy, defeated sigh that feels like it's been waiting within her lungs all day, she shifts her gaze away once more.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ she murmurs, her eyelids beginning to droop.

The last thing Jemma registers before sleep finally,  _finally_  pulls her under is his strangely open expression, heartbreak bleeding from his very gaze.

 

 

-

-

 

 

She has no idea what time it is when she jolts awake, ghoulish faces and ever-growing pools of red ( _she **killed**  somebody_) chasing her back into consciousness, but she knows that it’s still nighttime. The stars are out in full force, painting the skies with their endlessness, and Jemma tries to focus on picking out constellations as her breathing returns to normal. 

 _I used to live there,_  she thinks, dredging up the observation with no small amount of pain.

(Because she didn’t just live there; it had been her  _home_.)

She shifts her legs to get more comfortable, and she’s surprised to hear the sound of rustling plastic in her lap from the movement. What did she –?

Oh. 

It’s a power bar.

There’s a power bar there, sitting in her lap.

Ignoring the tight pulling around her eye socket (somebody’s fist had caught her face in the earlier scuffle; she’ll have to inspect it once they have time to stop), Jemma turns to regard Ward questioningly.

But he’s asleep.

Kara’s driving instead, humming to herself under her breath. 

Jemma hesitates, blinking sleepily. She knows why she’s second-guessing everything, of course, knows it’s because Ward had them so thoroughly fooled the first time around. She’s determined to be hyper vigilant this time, because she’s decided that it’s the only way this can possibly work. The trade off for a lack of trust has to be the close scrutiny of his motives, surely. It  _has_  to be. She can’t afford to simply wait around for that trust to somehow return.

She doesn’t even think that she  _wants_  it to return, in all honesty. 

But she's just…

She’s so  _tired_.

It's just a snack. Hardly a substantial concession in the grand scheme of things. And she's bloody ravenous.

_Oh, to hell with it._

Flexing her stiff jaw, Jemma unwraps the bar.

 

  

-

-

 

  

When they’re still driving at midday the next day, Jemma begins to seriously doubt the accuracy of “upstate.” 

Well. Actually, no, that’s not entirely true. She’s not worried simply over the fact that they underestimated the distance, not when there are more sinister implications here – namely, that they’re not going where they indicated to her that they were going, that this whole thing is just some ruse to get her alone and vulnerable, and –

She’s been cutting herself off before considering the other possibilities too carefully, but needless to say, they’ve crossed her mind.

(The plausibility of them lying about this, of all things, does seem admittedly low. And, despite everything, she somehow knows that Kara is being genuine about the whole thing.

But is Ward?) 

She’s just toying with the idea of simply tucking and rolling out of the car ( _It would most likely kill you at this speed, Jemma, and you know it. Good lord. Get it together.)_ when Ward exits off the main highway, navigating them through a multitude of twists and turns until they reach a tiny little town. Jemma takes in the sights outside her window with a critical gaze, cataloguing the various details, and they all point to the same conclusion.

It’s a college town.

And it’s exactly the sort of place where a group of SHIELD cadets might be able to blend in without fear of suspicion.

Jemma sits up a little straighter, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt.

_Well._

_Alright then._  

She reminds herself that her doubt in Ward and Kara is nothing to feel bad about – it’s good, in fact. Healthy. They can’t possibly fool her when she’s this alert and suspicious. But somehow, the mental reassurance falls flat.

They spend another 10 minutes crawling along the small one-way streets and laneways, Kara calling out the names of landmarks to help with navigation, until she finally breathes _there it is_ and Ward pulls the car over. He kills the engine, and the three of them lean forward as one to peer up at the building. It’s fairly unremarkable, really – just a generic-looking block of apartments, with nothing particularly noteworthy about its appearance.

Nobody says anything for a few moments.

Then:

‘ _This,_ is their base,’ Jemma states, voice dripping with disbelief. Kara glances back at her.

‘Intel says it used to be a sharehouse for college students,’ she provides, ‘so the locals are pretty used to new, young faces coming and going at various hours.’

Jemma’s eyebrows creep upwards.

‘That’s… actually rather clever of them.’

‘Got themselves a good operator,’ Ward muses, but he’s still frowning up at the building as he says it, apparently deep in thought.

Kara looks at him incredulously. ‘ _Or_ , they’re a bunch of literal geniuses.’

‘We don’t know they’re Sci-Tech,’ he reminds her. ‘Could be Ops.’

‘Mmm, that sounds fun,’ Kara deadpans with a half eye roll. She ejects the mag from her gun, checking how many rounds she has left, before shoving it back into place and grinning across at Ward. ‘Care to find out?’ 

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he replies easily, with a quirk of an eyebrow and a tilt of his head, and Jemma feels another pang at the clear fondness between the two. But it’s more than the usual resentment that hits her this time, more than the thrumming anger it’s been eliciting each and every time.

It’s wistfulness.

She misses having that sort of connection with people, misses it with a sudden fierceness she hadn’t anticipated.

(She’s just been so goddamned _lonely_.)

Before she can become too caught up in that maudlin train of thought, Ward twists in his seat to face her, holding out a pistol. He’s gripping the barrel, handle pointed towards her, but the clear act of trust does nothing to dispel the flare of panic in her chest at the implications.

‘Oh, no I couldn’t – ’

‘Simmons,’ Ward says, a hint of that old impatience in his voice, and he gestures at her with the gun. Jemma looks at it more closely, and –

Oh.

It’s an ICER.

 _Her_ ICER.

She blinks. ‘How –?’

‘Managed to grab it from the apartment before we split,’ he explains.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet his briefly. Ward only nods. 

They get out of the car, walking over to the front door, and Jemma tries to straighten her shoulders a little. Out in the open as they are, Ward and Kara walk in a manner that appears very relaxed and at ease, but if Jemma looks closely enough, she can see the taut lines of alertness running through their postures. The whole effect is effortless in a way Jemma’s spent around six months trying to achieve. She tries not to feel too envious. 

The wall next to the door is much like you’d expect at any normal apartment building, with a panel of buzzers for each individual apartment, but it’s clear that one particular button has been pressed more frequently than the others. Casting a quick glance back at Ward, Kara half-shrugs and then steps forward to press the worn-out button. 

Feeling a sudden rush of trepidation at what might await them beyond this door, Jemma glances across at the other two. Really, she doesn’t want to even bring it up at all – not after what had happened with Kara back by the side of the road yesterday, with the way the shadows still seem to linger around her features, even now. She really, _really_ doesn’t want to bring it up.

But somebody should.

Jemma clears her throat.

‘It… probably goes without saying at this point, but your intel was from a reliable source?’ she asks, trying to inject as much casual lightness into her voice as possible. The blank look Kara levels at her suggests that she might have missed the mark somewhat. Jemma hastens to smooth it over.

‘I – More reliable, I mean.’

Kara just watches Jemma for a bit longer before turning back to the door.

‘Airtight,’ she murmurs.

Before Jemma has the chance to start unravelling _that_ cryptic response, however, they’re being buzzed through to the lobby.

An actual lobby. They’re walking into an actual lobby.

The whole thing is just surreal.

‘Anyone else feeling like this is perhaps a little too good to be true?’ Jemma asks at a whisper.

‘Stop right where you are.’ 

_Well. There you have it._

They all freeze, turning around slowly to find the source of the shaky command, and –

It’s a kid.

Well, alright. Not _really_ a kid. He’s probably in his early twenties, all things considered. But he has a youthful face and a lithe, muscular build that he hasn’t quite grown into yet and, most importantly, he’s training a gun on them with hands that tremble just the slightest amount.

So, yes. He’s a kid.

All three of them hold their hands out, not wanting to spook him anymore than he already seems to be spooked. Out of the corner of her eye, Jemma notices how tense her companions are; Ward looks a lot like he wants to have a go at disarming him, and Kara seems just as poised to fight.

That’s…

That’s not at all promising. In fact, as far as she can tell, it’s an objectively terrible idea.

Jemma isn’t an expert, of course – she’s not a trained specialist – but even _she_ can see that the boy’s jumpy because of where he’s standing, just a few feet in front of an apartment door. His intentions are being clearly broadcast through his body language, plain and simple.

He’s guarding the door.

Which most likely means that the ex-cadets, if they are truly present, are hidden beyond said door.

By her count, the fall of SHIELD was around 18 months ago. While they have little to no idea of what occurred that day at the Academy, nor of what has transpired since, she knows that it can’t have been easy. The fact that they’ve survived with their freedom for this long speaks to how willing they’ve been to fight for it. It speaks to what is likely a great deal of atrocious acts, things they’d never do unless it ensured their survival. In this boy’s eyes, Jemma can see the ruthlessness that this experience has given him, and she has no doubt that he will use any force necessary to prevent them from getting to the others.

Certainty floods her mind, and Jemma knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that she won’t let Ward and Kara attempt to fight this boy. They should be talking calmly to him, reasoning with him, trying to insinuate themselves as the allies that they are – or, the ally that _she_ is, at any rate.

And that’s when it hits her, very nearly jolting her where she stands.

She’s a valid member of this team.

It’s one of the things that’s been worrying at her, she realises now, one of the things she’s been subconsciously trying to assert. Despite her own aversion to Ward, he and Kara have been functioning as a cohesive unit this entire time, completely independent of her. Really, she’s been just as unnecessary as she’d apparently been with SHIELD, at the end of _that_ whole mess.

But this, here?

This is where she fits in. This is where she’s needed; this is her role.

She’s the missing puzzle piece.

She’s _in_ this.

Taking a deep breath, Jemma squares her shoulders. Then, she sidesteps Ward and walks purposefully towards the boy. 

‘ _Jemma,_ ’ Kara hisses behind her. She hears another sigh that can only come from Ward, and if she were to close her eyes, she wouldn’t have any trouble imagining a time far gone by, with a Ward who sighed longsuffering sighs and a team that wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but at least they were a team.

If there’s one thing that Jemma’s learning, though, it’s that she’ll never be able to accept the realities of the present if she dwells on the past.

So she shakes off the ghost of the memory and ignores them both, instead raising her chin a little and continuing her slow approach. The boy adjusts his grip on the gun, eyes alarmed and on high alert.

‘Stay back,’ he warns, twitching the gun.

Jemma raises her hands in a placating manner, trying to appear non-threatening. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘You can talk just fine from there.’

She stops. 

‘Very well, then.’

The boy cocks his head, oddly reminiscent of a puppy confronted with a foreign sound, and the motion is so achingly familiar that Jemma instantly understands its origins. She’d seen Fitz act in the exact same manner for entire weeks after he’d been fitted with his own receiver. 

This boy is on comms with someone.

 _Hopefully it’s the other students_ , Jemma thinks.

‘What’s your name?’ is what she asks him, her voice even and authoritative. She’s rather proud of how self-assured she sounds, actually; it’s been so long now since she’s walked her lab – her _domain_ – giving instructions and commanding attention. She hadn’t been convinced she still had it in her.

He takes an aggressive step towards her, raising his gun up level with her forehead. Her spine stiffens despite her best efforts.

‘You first.’

‘My name is Jemma Simmons.’

He doesn’t say anything in reply, only stares at her, and Jemma wonders if she should continue talking. She’s hardly a skilled negotiator, but it seems he requires more, at any rate.

The gun is practically brushing against her forehead.

‘You’re from the mobile command unit,’ he says abruptly.

Something dangerously akin to relief settles into her stomach. She simply raises her eyebrows in lieu of a response.

_Somebody in there must recognise me._

He tilts his head a little, his eyes still fixed on Jemma but his attention clearly with whomever is chattering away through his earpiece, and Jemma isn’t sure that she’s actively breathing by this point. The muzzle of the gun presses into her forehead now, surely leaving indentations. She tries to imagine what the mark might look like, should he remove his pistol. She tries not to imagine what the mark might look like should he not remove his pistol, should he go so far as to pull the trigger.

(She can picture the second option a little too clearly for her taste.)

Eventually, the boy sighs in frustration.

‘Okay, somebody’s gonna have to tell me what the fuck a FitzSimmons is.’

Behind her, Ward huffs out something like a laugh.

‘Look, can – one at a time, alright?’

_God, they’re so young._

‘ _Daniel_ ,’ comes a voice from behind the door.‘Oh my _God_ , just let them in.’ 

A thrill shoots through Jemma, despite the precariousness of her current situation.

_They’re in there._

‘Who are your friends?’ the boy – Daniel, apparently – demands of Jemma, ignoring the various calls and exasperated groans from behind the door that this elicits. 

_There are more._

Jemma inhales deeply, meeting Daniel’s gaze head-on. ‘Could you possibly remove the gun from my face first?’

It’s a tough call, she knows – he clearly feels more in control in this position, but she can see that his resolve is also wavering, courtesy of the recognition shown by the apartment’s inhabitants. He holds the gun resolutely, pressing the barrel into her forehead even harder. Jemma finds herself holding her breath, resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

 _Come on, Daniel_ , she mentally pleads. _Don’t do this. Come on._

And then finally, _blessedly_ , he relents, wrenching the gun away and taking a few steps backwards, yet still keeping his weapon semi-trained on the three of them.

(Jemma tries to hide the fact that she’s suddenly gulping for air.)

‘This is Kara Palamas,’ she provides once she’s collected herself, gesturing at Kara. The other two are directly behind her by this point, having deemed it safe enough to approach now that Daniel’s backed off a little. They still appear to be following her lead, however, for which she is incredibly grateful.

‘She was Agent 33 with Fury’s special service.’

Beside her, Kara nods in acknowledgement.

‘And him? Who’s he?’

From the steely glint to his gaze, Jemma can see Daniel considers Ward to be the greatest threat. Dangerous mistake, she thinks, underestimating Kara like that.

But then, he’s just a kid.

That’s the reason why they’re here.

‘This, is Grant Ward. He was…’ _A friend. A protector. Our brother._ She swallows, forging on. ‘He was… with us in mobile command, too.’

Daniel sizes him up once more, but Jemma can see that his attention is split between this task and whatever he’s being told from within the apartment.

‘They’re saying I can trust you,’ he says.

Jemma’s struck with the sudden question of whether or not any others have approached this apartment building, being buzzed through to the hold-up situation to which the three of them had just been subjected. Surely there must have been others. Did they all receive this treatment? Had any succeeded? Had any fared much, much worse?

And then the door swings open behind Daniel, revealing a hallway suspiciously devoid of people and oh, _God_. Jemma’s knees feel suddenly weak. They’re being let in. They’re being let in, and it’s only by merit of the fact that some of them recognise Jemma as an agent. She could’ve just as easily been Hydra, for all they knew.

Do they really have _that_ much blind faith in her – both as a concept and as a person? Do they honestly believe the legendary FitzSimmons to be incorruptible?

God, it’s a positively woeful system.

 _But that’s why we’re here_ , she reminds herself. To help, however it might be required.

Daniel leads them to one of the apartment doors, hesitating for a moment longer and leveling them with another suspicious expression. Whatever he sees must convince him, however, since he pulls out a keycard and opens the door. They walk together into the apartment proper and –

As soon as Jemma registers the sight before her, she stops dead in her tracks. Her jaw drops, completely unashamedly. 

Because it’s all connected. They’ve somehow managed to connect up all of the apartments, internally, to the point where it hadn’t even been visible from the hallway.

Everywhere she looks, she can see evidence of walls between apartments having been knocked down, makeshift walls erected in different places to cordon it all off into sections. There are internal staircases made of mismatched timber and steel, as well as a few ladder-trapdoors that one might be more accustomed to finding in houses with attics. Or cartoons, she thinks idly, and yet here it is, before her very eyes. They’re standing in a cleared out area in the centre of it all, strewn with chairs and tables and an assortment of other items, and it seems that most of the rooms and manufactured corridors open up into this area. She’d guess that this is their common room, of sorts. There’s even an adjusted kitchen off to the side – adjusted in that it would appear that it was initially this apartment’s kitchen, before various other stovetops and bench spaces were added in. 

The overall effect is that there are still rooms for varied purposes, still private living quarters (she presumes, at least), but they’re all accessible by the same inhabitants. So it’s more like a house, really, than individual apartments. And from outside the building, you’d be none the wiser.

In all honesty, it’s positively genius. But then, why should she have expected anything less? 

What’s more, Jemma thinks that she can see a makeshift lab through one of the doors left slightly ajar - she’s almost certain that’s a mass spectrometer, unless her eyes deceive her, and she’s spotted the eyepiece of a microscope just beyond that. She hasn’t time to reflect properly on that just yet, however, because a number of ex-cadets are now milling into the common area, regarding the newcomers with unabashed curiosity. There are… perhaps 30 of them? Maybe even as many as 40.

The whole thing’s making her feel a little faint, truthfully. Perhaps that’s just the poor sleep-to-food ratio talking. 

One girl steps forward, a furious expression on her face, and Jemma feels something clench unpleasantly in her chest. ‘Took you long enough,’ the girl spits out, her voice dripping with vitriol.

‘Uh, _wow?’_ Kara mutters under her breath. Jemma steps forward to address the girl directly.

‘We’re here now,’ she replies diplomatically, face kind but gaze hard. The girl’s eyes widen, and she backs off a few steps. Feeling the adrenaline-fueled energy burst of before seep away and leave her fatigued, Jemma exhales wearily.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Ward’s asking now, looking around at the sea of curious faces. 

‘Daniel!’ someone yells. A number of others make similar noises of assent. Daniel rolls his eyes, but his ramrod straight back and his tensed muscles belie any semblance of calmness that the eye roll might have projected. 

‘There’s a few of us,’ he explains in a clipped tone. ‘Callie and the others will be back tomorrow morning.’

_Callie?_

‘Hannigan?’ Jemma and Ward ask as one, making Kara look at them quizzically.

Daniel shifts on the spot, uncomfortable. ‘Yeah. You know her?’

Jemma feels woozy all of a sudden, swaying a little on her feet, and she distantly registers Kara’s hand encircling her wrist but she finds she can’t concentrate on it properly. Not when she feels this violently ill.

Because Callie’s here.

Jemma thinks of the fate that befell first Seth, then Donnie. She thinks of how she could have prevented both of them.

(She doesn’t think that she can write this reaction off as shock.)

‘We did,’ Ward answers eventually. He glances across at her, the slightest of creases in his brow, before he turns back to Daniel.

‘You’re Ops?’ he asks, clearly trying to change the subject. Daniel nods.

‘Me and one other – uh, Maryam, her name’s Maryam. She’ll be back tomorrow. The rest are Sci-Tech.’

 _The rest_.

Her people. These are her people, and she’d been so caught up in everything that she’d been unable to spare any time in search of them, unable to spare anything besides a faint, persistent worrying, and now this is what’s left.

This is what’s left of Sci-Tech.

‘So, what now?’ Daniel asks. Jemma’s thinking much the same. ‘You’ve got a plan, right?’

There’s a sort of hushed silence, the air tense with anticipation, and when Jemma glances around she finds that the cadets aren’t looking at Ward, the textbook specialist who’d been handling things up until now. Nor are they looking at Kara, who holds herself with the poise and commanding authority of a skilled agent and who bears an impressive scar on her face. 

No. They’re looking to her.

One of the legends of Sci-Tech.

Jemma’s stomach lurches.

‘Not… as such,’ she confesses.

There’s a bit of uncomfortable murmuring amongst the cadets.

‘But we will,’ Kara promises helpfully, a small smile at her lips. ‘We will.’

‘Look,’ Ward cuts in, and his voice is much more diplomatic and patient than it had been when they’d first arrived. Despite herself, Jemma is a touch impressed. ‘There’s a lot to discuss, and clearly we won’t be discussing it as a whole until your guys get back tomorrow.’

Daniel hesitates before nodding, as though he’s allowing himself extra time to look for hidden agendas behind Ward’s words.  

(Jemma feels like she and this boy will have no trouble finding common ground.)

Ward gestures at Jemma and Kara. ‘And we’ve been travelling all day, _and_ the one before.’

‘Oh!’ someone pipes up – a girl about Skye’s height, with long red hair down to her waist. Daniel shoots her a sharp look, and she flinches a little. ‘Sorry, just… yeah. That’s – I can show you to the living quarters?’

Daniel sighs. 

‘Was… are we not meant to?’ the girl asks.

‘We can’t just make them stand around here waiting for the others, Daniel.’

‘We already let them in. What’s the point of treating them like shit now?’

‘Yeah!’

There’s a chorus of voices agreeing, and tears prickle absurdly at the backs of Jemma’s eyes.

 _They’re so trusting_ , she thinks.

‘Fine!’ Daniel yells out, voice tight and hands held high to quiet the group. He points to the red-haired girl. ‘Taylor: they can stay on level 2. Put them in C, it’s got the least crap in it.’ When he looks at the three of them again, it’s with a critical gaze that seems to be perusing their appearance more than anything else. ‘Shower’s down the end of the hall.’

Jemma's almost offended.

_Do we really look that bad?_

‘Thank you.’

Ward signals for Jemma to step ahead of him, presumably to go wash up first, and she finds that she’s too tired to censor herself or scrutinize her actions; she shoots him a grateful look, before trudging away after the cadet.  She isn't sure whether there’s any amount of water in the world that can wash away the feeling of another human being’s blood soaking her clothes ( _nor the blood of all the people she failed to save_ ), but she’s determined to find out.

 

 

-

-

 

  

(There isn’t.)

  

 

-

-

 

 

It’s probably some time around sundown when Jemma finds herself seated on the periphery of the common area, idly surveying the activity before her. In the corner of the room, Ward appears to be deep in conversation with Daniel and a couple of other kids – perhaps they’re also in charge, she muses, or just intrigued onlookers. She’s certainly getting her fair share of intrigued onlookers, at any rate, with every nearby conversation seeming to end in a pointed glance towards her corner of the room. Her gaze, however, continues to stray to Ward.

Do they know? Do they know that a traitor walks amongst them?

And what does that make her, for leading him here?

She knows that she should probably be over there, ensuring that it’s all above the level. But there will be time for that later, Jemma reasons. Once she’s feeling less like a grenade that’s about to take out the entire building. Once she can close her eyes and see something, _feel_  something, beyond sickening red warmth. Once the dampness dripping from her wet hair, spreading out along the back of her shirt, feels cleansing rather than cloying, the effect of it currently too alike the dying surge of an unknown assailant.

She’s so lost in her troubled thoughts that she doesn’t even notice Kara’s approach until the woman is right next to her.

‘That’s quite the shiner you’ve got there, English.’

Absently, Jemma reaches a hand up to touch the contusion on her face. She’d checked her eye socket thoroughly in the bathroom earlier, finally satisfied that there aren’t any fractures, but it’ll likely appear swollen and bruised for some time yet.

(Imagine if the Jemma of two years ago could see her now – black eye, scar from a knife wound, out on her own with a known killer.)

She smiles weakly up at Kara. ‘How are they?’ 

Kara huffs out a breath, running a hand through her still-unwashed hair.

‘I was Agent 33, you know.’

Jemma waits patiently, having become accustomed to the lilting cadence of Kara’s storytelling by now. She idly tears off another mouthful of roti from the plate resting in her lap.

’33,’ Kara reiterates, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘That’s how trusted I was. Double digits, less than forty. Special service. Reported to Fury himself.’

Sensing that the other woman is winding herself up for a bit of a rant, Jemma shuffles over, an invitation in and of itself. Kara takes the seat with a grateful smile.

‘But do you think any of these kids give a crap? It’s all, Jemma Simmons this, and FitzSimmons that – ’ 

Jemma feels a cold wave of nausea wash over her.

‘ – and did you hear about the time she shot a Hydra agent before we knew Hydra was a thing? And also the time she unfroze some poor kid in a lecture hall, and – don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you deserve all of that and more, but come on. What the hell am I?’

Balling her hands into fists on her thighs, Jemma tries to breathe through her nose to control the surge of discomfort swelling in her stomach. Kara’s words echo around and around in her mind.

Because maybe the Jemma of old _did_ used to want that sort of attention, that complimentary a reception.

But this Jemma certainly doesn’t. 

(Don’t they know what she’s done? How can they not read it in the tautness of her face, in the haunted lines of her posture?) 

‘I’m positive that they find you impressive too, Kara,’ Jemma tries, desperate to shift the attention away from herself. She shoots Kara an encouraging smile. ‘Anybody would.’

Kara snorts. ‘Well, that scrawny kid over there told me he could “fix my face.” I’m mostly just offended on your behalf.’

‘Kara…’

‘Actually, I think he might’ve been hitting on me?’

‘Kara.’

‘You’ll have to talk to them eventually,’ she replies, suddenly serious. Jemma blinks, taken aback by the switch, before sighing.

‘I know.’

‘Ward’s doing well over there, but it’s you they want to hear from. You’re their _person_. They’ll listen to you.’

Kara’s face is so open and earnest, and Jemma feels something clench in her chest at the sight. _I’m not that person anymore,_ she thinks. She’s not one half of the FitzSimmons unit. She’s broken, directionless.

They need the person they think she is. 

But it’s not her. How can it be?

Jemma turns back to her food.

‘They shouldn’t,’ is what she mutters. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Kara purse her lips.

‘Can I suggest something?’

After a short pause, Jemma nods, setting her plate to the side. She seems to have lost her appetite anyway.

‘Call your team.’

Genuinely surprised, Jemma raises her eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your team,’ Kara continues, still forceful but a little gentler now, a little warmer. ‘Let them know you’re alright.’

Jemma hesitates, a pang of homesick longing shooting through her. Could she?

No, there’s no… no.

No.

She couldn’t.

‘It’s better that they don’t know my location,’ she explains, almost on autopilot.

‘You don’t have to tell them where you are,’ Kara amends. ‘I mean, you said they had all those people tailing you, right?’

Oh.

She knew that. She should have – she should have worked that out on her own.

Because Kara’s absolutely right. Lance had promised her that he’d keep everyone away – he’d _promised_ – and Jemma has never once doubted that he’ll follow through. But she also knows that if she dropped off the map suddenly, he’d be amongst the first to come galloping in after her.

He might even be on his way already.

‘Could have quite the extraction coming for you,’ Kara continues, as though reading Jemma’s thoughts. A grin pulls at her lips. ‘We might even see the Cavalry herself.’

‘Don’t call her that,’ Jemma snaps, surprising herself with the vehemence. Kara recoils a little, making Jemma feel instantly guilty.

_Shit._

Kara’s lips are downturned. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have – ’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Jemma musters a weak smile. ‘You… it’s fine.’

Kara watches her a couple of moments longer, as though deciding, before nodding to herself.

‘Call them, Jemma.’

_She shouldn’t._

‘I will.’

‘We need you on board, if we’re going to make a difference here. We need you with us.’

 _What difference,_ Jemma wants to ask, not for the first time today. What’s the angle? What are we doing here? 

But somehow, when it’s Kara who’s suggesting it, the whole thing is much easier to stomach. She probably should marvel at how her instincts are to trust this woman she’s only known for such a short amount of time, but she knows that that’s how she’s always been. Old Jemma, the Jemma of Before, she always did this. And the Jemma that she is now hadn’t thought herself capable any longer.

Apparently, some things never change.

Perhaps there is still hope for her after all.

Kara’s a couple of steps away before she seems to recall something else, turning back to face Jemma.

‘Oh, one more thing.’

Jemma lifts her head.

‘If you ever feel like talking about why you tore out your own stitches,’ she begins deliberately, eyes suddenly about as grave as Jemma’s seen them. Jemma can practically feel the colour run from her own cheeks. 

_How did she…?_

‘I’m all ears. Ward doesn’t ever have to know about it.’

Jemma worries her lower lip between her teeth, trying desperately to tamp down on the sudden flare of emotions. On the one hand, she wouldn’t even know _how_ to open up about this stuff – she’s spent her entire life swallowing it down. It’s simply in her nature. But on the other hand, it’s just been so long since she’s had anybody to talk to.

It’s been so long since anyone cared enough to ask.

So she nods. Just the smallest amount, and not for long, but she nods. Kara shoots her an encouraging smile before leaving her to her own thoughts. 

(She stares at the space where Kara had stood for a long time after the woman leaves.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

In the end, it’s the mental image of Melinda May bursting into this place with all guns blazing, the unmitigated disaster that would surely ensue, and Jemma’s unwavering certainty that this _will_ occur unless she intervenes that has her digging through her pack for her sat phone.

The same sat phone that Fitz had handed to her on her last day.

Jemma swallows thickly, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory.

(The very second she’d found herself alone in her first apartment, she’d disassembled the SHIELD-issued sat phone with a franticness that she’s certain will forever cause her shame. After thorough inspection, she’d reached the only possible conclusion: there was no GPS tracker of any description within the phone.

She was really and truly on her own.

Jemma hadn’t known whether to be relieved or disappointed. Mostly, she’d just cried.)

Sitting on the edge of her bed now, phone gripped firmly in her hand, Jemma hesitates. Logically, she knows that May will have no aversion to taking her call – hell, she’ll most likely welcome it, especially with the developments of the past few days. It’s just that she isn’t quite sure of how the interaction will go, given how they left things, and the thought fills her with no small amount of trepidation.

She hasn’t called back to base in the entire six months, after all.

_Just do it. It’ll be fine._

Before she can lose her nerve, she dials the number she knows by heart. The phone starts ringing.

_It’ll be **fine.**_

‘May.’ 

The answer throws Jemma for a moment; she’d expected May to address her by name, or at the very least to give some other indication that she’d been awaiting this call. Had she… _not_ been awaiting it? Has she truly given up on the possibility of Jemma ever contacting them again?

Jemma’s heart sinks.

 _Has May given up on me?_  

After a brief moment of near-panicked consideration, however, her exhausted mind makes the connection. She probably isn’t the only person with this number anymore. Because she’s no longer the sole wayward child of SHIELD, is she? They’re all scattered now.

(Somehow, that’s worse.)

‘Hello?’ May demands once the silence has stretched on for too long, her voice calm but with a hint of impatience creeping into the periphery now. Closing her eyes, bracing herself, Jemma clears her throat softly. 

‘It’s me,’ she murmurs.

The change in May is instantaneous. 

‘Are you hurt? Has he hurt you?’

Her lips twist into something approaching a smile, but she suspects it’s too tinged with bitterness to be truly classified as one.

‘No, I’m alright.’ 

‘Jemma – ’ 

‘ _May_. I’m fine.’

She can practically hear May reeling herself back in, holding herself back from pursuing that line of questioning, and it hurts, a little. It’s not that May’s the most forthcoming person, but she’s never censored herself in all the time they’ve known each other. And Jemma knows that she, herself, is probably to blame, but even so. It still smarts. 

‘What do you need?’ May asks eventually, brusque but not unkind. Jemma mulls over her response for a moment.

‘I thought… you might want me to call,’ she says slowly, carefully. It comes out more like a question than she’s entirely comfortable with. 

May’s voice gentles.

‘Of course I want you to call.’

They can both hear what she’s not saying – Jemma has been welcome to call before now, and yet she hasn’t. 

‘I know what I’m doing,’ she blurts out, apropos of nothing, and then she winces because shit. _Shit._ That was confirmation. She’d deflected before, but May will recognise this as the confirmation of the Ward situation that it is.

A sigh filters down the line.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Jemma holds her breath, waiting for the _but._ She knows the tempo of this by now. Her final days at SHIELD had been soundtracked by it. 

‘But he’s very good at – ’

‘ – Please don’t.’ 

‘You know what he’s done.’ 

‘Yeah!’ Jemma exclaims, voice just bordering on the hysterical. She tries to swallow it down, taking a quick, calming breath. ‘Yes. I do know. And that’s why it’s ultimately my choice.’

It’s a long time before May speaks again.

‘Do you trust him?’ she asks finally, and Jemma thinks she might just hate May in this moment. Miles and miles between them, half a year’s absence under their belts, and yet she still knows what Jemma’s exact problem with the whole situation will be. She knows precisely where to look in order to find the misgivings.

The trust thing is a trump card, and May barely even hesitated before playing it. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jemma dismisses. She won’t to rise to the bait. Not again.

‘Jemma – ’

‘This doesn’t change anything, May.’

In the pause that follows, Jemma can hear the echoes of all their arguments, of all the words May had used to try to change Jemma’s mind. She wonders which she’ll hear this time. She wonders whether she’ll be able to _take it_ this time.

She gets none of that.

‘If that’s what you want,’ May says, barely audible across the static. 

It’s not. 

‘It is.’ 

‘Can you at least tell me where you are?’

‘I don’t think that would be…’ Would be what? ‘Appropriate, given the current state of SHIELD.’ 

(It’s a dig. It’s a blatant dig, and she’s not at all proud of it.)

‘I’m… I’m working on it.’ May’s voice is surprisingly vulnerable, and Jemma feels herself swallowing around a sudden lump in her throat. ‘Jemma. I promise you that I’m trying. I _promise._ ’

There are tears in her eyes now, because she believes her. She believes May with her entire being. 

The tragedy of them is that it still isn’t enough.

‘Are you well?’ she asks through the tears, not even trying to disguise the subject change. She just needs to hold it together for the rest of this call. She can do this. She _can_. 

‘Yes,’ her old mentor replies at length. Jemma can hear the sad frustration in her voice. 

‘Is Lance still with you?’ she presses on.

‘Yes.’ 

 _Good_. That’s good. She presses a hand to her forehead, deliberating for far too long before finally just throwing caution to the wind.

‘Fitz?’ 

Another sigh, this one deeper and wearier than Jemma’s perhaps ever heard from May. She tries not to consider the implications of that. 

(She fails.)

‘He is.’

Jemma releases a breath she hadn’t even been aware she’d been holding.

 _Right_.

She blinks through the tears that have just begun to fall. 

‘I should go.’

‘Wait,’ May says hurriedly.

Jemma waits.

‘Just… don’t drop your guard. Please.’

She’s going to cry.

‘I won’t,’ she says, lips twisting into a bitter smile. ‘You trained me better than that.’

She hangs up before May can respond to that, dropping the phone to the bed before sinking to the mattress herself. The tears that stream down her face are relentless. 

But Jemma doesn’t make a sound.

 

 

-

-

 

 

It’s around 2AM when she finally decides that sleep will not find her on this night – if it does, it’ll only be the sort plagued with nightmares – and so, after tossing and turning for another half hour or so, Jemma ditches her bed altogether and pads out to the common area within their little apartment. The kids had allocated the three of them one of the larger sections, one that’s being used for general storage, and it has two bedrooms with a sort of lounge area in between.

Jemma doesn’t mind sharing a room with Kara, not in the least – it’s comforting, actually, having another pulse nearby after so long with only the sound of her own breathing to keep her company. 

After quickly taking stock of the small area, Jemma finds herself irrevocably drawn, as though by some sort of magnetism, to the windowsill that doubles as a sort of reading seat. Nobody had bothered to close the (rather ramshackle, if she can say so herself) blinds earlier, and given the lack of cloud cover, she thinks that perhaps the clear night sky might be able to soothe her in some abstract way.

At the very least, it should offer ample distraction. 

Settling herself comfortably, Jemma begins to comb her fingers through the bird’s nest that is her hair. It had been a mistake, going to bed with it still drying. It’s long now – partly to obscure her identity; mostly because she couldn’t bring herself to care that much about her appearance, after a time – and she thinks that maybe that’s become a problem. She thinks that maybe she should cut it. Maybe Kara will help. 

Right now, it’s too alike the younger version of herself, the girl too filled with hope and pride and naïve idealism. And she's not sure she’s entirely at ease with the discrepancy between the memory and her reality.

Although she isn’t certain precisely _how_ she knows, given that she can’t really see him, Jemma suddenly becomes aware of Ward’s presence in the space. She knows that it’s him even before he situates himself in one of the nearby armchairs, leaning back and making himself at home. She wonders if that awareness of him, of the imminent threat he poses, will ever quite go away. 

(She very much doubts it.)

They sit in tense silence for the longest time, neither of them really knowing how to begin. Because they will. Begin, that is. They’ve been building to this, and Jemma’s half-terrified of where it will go. Not an apology – she’s sure of this much. He’d barely even acknowledged the hurt that he’d inflicted, back when they were still arguing away in her apartment, and she’d watched the footage from the one time Fitz had visited him in Vault D. She knew his words, how he’d tried to present the pod incident to her… to Fitz. 

Normally, his lack of self-accountability would make her positively livid. But here, now, in this hazy sort of nighttime setting, she doesn’t feel the usual fury at him.

No.

Nighttime is when the _hurt_ seeps in, and she already feels it swelling around her, pulling her down into its depths. 

She shouldn’t succumb, she knows. Don't feed the monster. But as always, as has been the case for almost longer than she can remember, now, she does. She clears her throat, conscious of its roughness all of a sudden.

‘Did you ever consider not doing it?’

It’s purposefully vague; she just wants to see how he’ll choose to answer it. He blinks at her, sluggish in the half-light filtering through the window, before he answers.

‘Almost every day.’ 

Equally as vague. She’d forgotten, for a moment, just who she’s dealing with. The accusation spills out before she can stop it.

‘The only reason that Hydra survived within SHIELD was because none of the Hydra agents spoke up.’

Ward regards her carefully, expression neutral, but she can see a trace of annoyance behind his eyes. It doesn’t please her as it should, doesn’t fuel her anger.

Not anymore.

It just exhausts her, in a way she knows even sleep can’t reverse.

(She _should_ know, after all. She’s tried.)

‘You know that’s not the only reason,’ he says.

She does. But this still feels important, somehow.

‘If you’d told Coulson – ’

‘If I’d told him, a lot of people would have died anyway,’ he says, tone brooking no argument. ‘They still would have fought. You – Fitz, Skye, May… you all still would have fought.’

She doesn’t reply to that – he’s not wrong – but instead looks intently out the window for a protracted moment, not really registering anything she sees. Because he still doesn’t get it.

_We would have fought, but you would have fought with us. **For** us._

Eventually, she shifts her gaze back across to meet his, holding it significantly. 

‘I still should have told him,’ he admits, and Jemma startles at the quality to his voice. He’d always seemed so… off, whenever anyone had gone to speak with him down in the vault. Like his words were all carefully crafted to a specific end – to convince them all that he’s being genuine, she’d always thought. She’d also thought he was rubbish at it, for someone as highly trained as he is. 

But this? This feels different, somehow. This feels raw; almost sincere.

She doesn’t want to believe that he’s being genuine. She isn’t sure she could handle the implications of that.

And yet. 

Ward shakes his head – maybe to jolt himself out of the memories. Jemma knows the feeling.

‘But I didn’t. And that’s on me.’ He looks up. ‘I have a lot to atone for.’

 _That_ hits a little too close to home.

‘How?’ she asks, running a hand through her mess of curls again. She studies his face, all solemnity, and she’s suddenly desperate to know how he’s embarking on what he clearly sees as some sort of path to redemption. And perhaps it _is_ misguided, perhaps the reasoning behind it is unfairly skewed in his favour, but at the very least he seems to have some sort of plan.

Jemma badly needs a plan. 

‘Where do you even begin?’ she specifies, her voice dipping in and out of a whisper. Ward tilts his head just the slightest amount, considering her.

‘You retrace your steps,’ he says simply. ‘Find the point where it all went wrong, start from there.’ 

Her stomach sinks.

(How does she retrace her steps? How _can_ she, when she left it all behind?) 

‘Not what you wanted to hear?’ Ward guesses. 

‘Not what I _needed_ to hear,’ she admits, a hint of frustration teasing at the edges of her voice. He nods, the action betraying some sort of understanding, and she feels… something. He’s been here before, she thinks, with the path ahead all hazy and the inner turmoil almost unbearable. He’s _still_ here, perhaps. And they’ve vastly different circumstances, naturally, but even so.

It’s… she wouldn’t exactly call it a comforting thought. She isn’t sure that anything really can be anymore, not coming from him. But it’s something.

 _Something_ is a lot more than she’s had for a very long time.

_(What does that make me?)_

‘Answer me this, Jemma Simmons,’ he begins after the silence has stretched out for far too long, his voice slow and his gaze steady on her. She only blinks back at him. ‘What do _you_ think you have to atone for?’ 

And for all that they’ve got an unsteady truce now – devoid of solid trust though it is – for all they’re discussing _that_ period, Jemma won’t answer him that. 

She refuses. 

He sighs at her lack of response, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. 

‘Look. We don’t have to talk about any of… what you’re going through. Not if you don’t want to.’

One glance at his expression confirms the meaning behind his words; he’s noticed. She knows now that he’s thinking of the scar on her arm and her complete non-reaction to it, of her too-sharp features and general aversion to food. Of throwing herself into armed conflict despite her lack of experience, of striding out across open spaces before checking them thoroughly, of the muzzle of a gun pressed to her forehead and the refusal to back down despite this.

Of course he’s noticed. Of course he’s put it together.

 _Of course._  

She runs a hand through the long strands of her hair again, refusing to meet his eyes.

‘But atoning doesn’t mean punishing yourself.’

_Fuck._

She knows this. Logically, she knows this.

(But how do you stop when it feels like the only way through?)

Firming her lips, she gives him a single nod anyway. She won’t talk about it – not with him, perhaps not even with _anyone_ – but she can at least acknowledge it so that he'll drop it. So that they can move on.

He must get the message, because they lapse into silence for a while after that. Jemma looks back out the window, and she can’t help but morbidly wonder whether Ward looks at the sky and remembers it with the same fondness that she does. She isn’t really sure she believes he deserves as much.

But then, surely remembering the time when they were all together, remembering how close they got to happiness, is the greatest punishment of all. 

‘These kids,’ he begins at length, voice all business now. ‘They respect you.’ 

‘They respect all of us,’ she counters tiredly, tugging at a particularly nasty knot with her fingers.

‘Not like they respect you.’

‘What are you saying, Ward?’ she bites out, irritation creeping into her voice. 

But Ward only regards her unflinchingly. ‘I think you know.’

She does. Of course she does. 

‘You’re the key to this,’ he continues.

‘To _this_ ,’ she repeats dubiously.

‘Simmons.’

Jemma just stares back at him, waiting him out with no small amount of annoyance.

‘Last I heard, you were rebuilding SHIELD’s Science Division.’

She hesitates, nods.

‘Care to do it again?’

_Care to…?_

Jemma sits up in alarm.

‘To what end, Ward?’ She can hear how incredulous she sounds, and she’s glad for it, because she can feel it oozing from her every pore. She shakes her head. ‘Are you just expecting to – to march them back into SHIELD at some point?’

The thought unsettles her, in a way it never would have before she’d left. She doesn’t want to bring any kids into SHIELD right now. Not with what SHIELD currently is.

(Who knows better than her how thoroughly it destroys youth?)

Ward’s regarding her with interest, and with something that looks worryingly close to understanding. ‘There needs to be a conversation,’ he ventures slowly, ‘at some point. About SHIELD.’

Jemma just swallows, casting her gaze downwards in the closest she’ll come to signaling her agreement. 

‘In the meantime, we owe it to them to keep other… interested parties, let’s say, at bay. Don’t you think?’

She does. It makes sense – too much sense, in fact. Still, reluctance makes her limbs heavy, weighing her down with the possible ramifications.

‘What are we going to do with them? There’s no…’ Jemma scrunches up her nose in thought, shakes her head a little. ‘No mission, no project. No assignments. What do we do?’

Ward shrugs. ‘They seem to have something going. We’ll find out tomorrow.’

‘Okay, but suppose they don’t. Suppose it’s not feasible in a long-term capacity. What then?’

He sits back, tilting his head again. ‘You know, I never understood 80% of what you and Fitz said in the lab.’ 

Jemma raises an eyebrow before she can even think to stop herself. ‘80% is a conservative estimate, don’t you think?’ she mutters.

He doesn’t argue the point, but something like amusement gleams in his eyes.

‘And the two of you had no muscle definition to speak of,’ he continues. She shoots him a withering glare. ‘Back then, I mean. Obviously not now; saw your biceps earlier. Not bad. May give you a workout regime?’

‘Ward.’

‘We train them. In everything.’ When he looks at her now, it’s with nothing but sincere intent. ‘They learn from each other, and they learn from us.’

Jemma can only gape. ‘That’s…’

It’s a _massive_ ask, is what it is, not to mention an extraordinary commitment. The sheer responsibility of filling the gaps in their knowledge… Jemma swallows thickly.

They’d be _educating_ them. They’d be a makeshift Academy. More than that, they'd be an 'all-rounder' Academy - no split between Sci-Tech and Ops anymore, just skills in general, for all.

They’d be unavoidably _in_ this.

And they might be doing more harm than good.

‘It’s not enough to be just one thing out here,’ Ward implores. ‘You know that. They need survival skills.’

‘They’re doing a pretty good job as is,’ she tries weakly.

‘They lucked out. I’d say there’s a very good reason why this is all that’s left of Sci-Tech.’

That’s true. And it makes sense, it does. She knows she’s fighting a losing battle here, putting up a perfunctory resistance more than anything else. She can’t even think of another reasonable argument against it. 

There’s only one left. 

‘They’re still just kids,’ she breathes, hoping that conveys enough.

Ward doesn’t answer right away, and she thinks he hears it too, across the reaches of time – the sentiment floating hauntingly around the lab and garage of the Bus, on the very day pre-Bus Jemma disappeared forever, plummeting to earth while the transformed Jemma clung to this man before her now.

‘Not anymore,’ he says.

And Jemma rather believes the truth of that could effectively summarise her past two years.

‘Look,’ he says, standing up. ‘You can have your doubts tonight, but tomorrow? We need you.’

That should infuriate her, Jemma thinks. Him giving her orders. She should be mad, should want to growl out a response at him.

But she doesn’t.

It only settles into her bones as truth.

They _need_ her.

And the unutterable truth of the situation is this: there _is_ no ‘right’ here. Not really. Everything’s a dark, murky mess, with nothing as clear-cut as it had always seemed previously. But outside of the mess of SHIELD and Hydra and any other parties involved, she knows this one truth:

Helping these kids? Keeping them away from _all_ interested parties? 

It’s right.

It’s what they should do. 

Besides, she _wants_ this. The vehemence with which she suddenly wants this catches her off-guard. She wants to help them in this way, knows that she can do it. 

‘Ward,’ she calls out at his retreating back. The sound of his footfalls halts. Jemma lifts her head. 

‘I’ll be ready.’

When he smiles back at her, it’s with a gentle fondness that she wishes didn’t affect her so much.

‘Never doubted it.’ 

And then, just like that, she’s alone once more.

Jemma spends another five or so minutes by the window, simply contemplating all that has just transpired. _This is the right thing to do_ , she reminds herself. Or, really, it’s as close to right as she’s going to get for a while. 

That might just have to be enough. 

She unfolds her legs and stands up, stretching her arms over her head before brushing herself off. It might still be the middle of the night, but there’s no use just sitting here and wallowing.

Not now.

She’s got work to do.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Just quickly:
> 
> \- This section's title is from Walk the Moon's Iscariot, as are the rest of the titles associated with this series. I'm not sure whether I've explicitly stated that yet or not, so there you go.  
> \- At this point, there will most likely be two more sections. I have no idea when I'll get around to writing them.  
> \- I've had this oddly obscure headcanon about where some of the Academy kids are holed up for a long, long time now, and this is the first opportunity I've had to put it into a fic, so hooray for that!! Canon can pry it from my cold dead hands, probably.  
> \- I wrote Kara as having this knee injury because the terminology of it has always been familiar to me, but most importantly here, I wrote it months and months ago. And then Bobbi sustained her knee injury in canon. And then I sustained this very same injury myself, about a month later. Foreshadowing...?  
> \- Special shout-out to Sam, who has been very patiently reminding me to continue this for an extremely long time now. Hope you enjoyed it!!  
> \- You can find me on tumblr at imperfectlychaotic, if that's your thing.
> 
> Thanks again!!


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